


The Man On The Shore Of Avalon

by ChibiDargon



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Avalon - Freeform, Characters Probably Need Therapy, Everyone Needs A Hug, Gen, Introspection, Morgana Needs a Hug, POV Morgana (Merlin), Post-Canon, Reincarnation, Self-Harm, You'd Need It Too If You Were Immortal, let's be real, merlin needs a hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-06-25 13:21:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19746586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChibiDargon/pseuds/ChibiDargon
Summary: Some centuries after the events of Diamond Of The Day, Merlin is still sitting alone on the shore of a particular lake, waiting for the day that Arthur will return.Meanwhile, a child named Morgan is abandoned near Avalon.This is the story of how The Man On The Shore Of Avalon found something like family again.





	The Man On The Shore Of Avalon

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: I don't own these characters.
> 
> Not entirely sure if I can call this a character study, so I'll air on the side of caution and not. I wrote this in a fit of angst, and if I'm being honest? Annoyance at the way Morgana's character is developed throughout the series.
> 
> Also, the author is Canadian. Humor me, yeah?
> 
> Unbeta'd, any mistakes are my own.
> 
> **Warnings**
> 
> There are references to suicide, in the way of Merlin not being able to die, and wanting to. He does make an attempt, but it's not graphic. He dies, sort of. Merlin is immortal, after all, so he comes back. If this kind of content bothers or triggers you, please don't read it.

The Man On The Shore Of Avalon

It took something like a week before he could even bring himself to move, immortal as he was, the dehydration and starvation and sleep deprivation were painful, but not deadly. A week spent on the shore, staring with dry eyes and a salt lined face at the surface of the lake, with a weight in his heart heavier than anything he had ever carried before.

The feeling was like nothing that could ever be described. Like he had been cut off from part of himself, a strange yearning tug pulled at him, toward the waters of Avalon. Later, Merlin wouldn’t be able to remember exactly how he got back to Camelot. He wouldn’t remember telling Gwen what happened, or learning that Gwaine was dead. He wouldn’t remember anything but those two weeks of desperate hope and heartbroken resignation.

Hell, Merlin wouldn’t really remember anything until he went back to Avalon, some decades later. It was a cool day, the wind whispering over the grass and through the leaves, singing a near silent song of mourning for Guinevere and Leon. 

But he would remember the way that the light reflected off of the lake, the slight humidity of the water hanging in the air. 

How he sat down exactly where he had a lifetime ago and stared over the water, chin resting in his hand and thoughts on all those who he’d lost.

Lancelot.

Percival.

Gwaine.

Leon.

Guinevere.

Gaius.

Morgana, as she was.

Will.

Hunith.

All the people of the lower town.

Elyan.

Arthur.

Arthur, above all. His Golden Prince. The Once And Future King. 

So he waited, on the shores of Avalon, for more lifetimes than most would consider possible.

* * *

A child named Morgan is sitting in a wooden shed, crying. 

Her ankle is probably broken, and her father left her here. Alone.

That’s when a young man slips into the shed. It’s dark there, the walls made of half-rotted wooden planks, the floor dirt. No light to speak of. 

She’s been abandoned, dad left her to die. She heard him leave, and now she’s going to be killed or tortured by this man.

She cries harder. 

She’s not a baby, though, so she does her best not to flinch away when he kneels down beside her and touches her swollen leg.

He whispers something, and his eyes flash gold.

The pain dies a quick death, leaving her with a pleasant warmth running through her, making something _spark_.

Morgan raises tearful green eyes to meet blue ones and she feels it.

A startling familiarity. She knows this man, with raven hair and stubble and high cheekbones. She knows this as she knows her own name.

In a moment of slightly hysterical denial, an old story her mum used to tell her sweeps through her mind.

__  
He lives alone, atop a hill, mourning a loss that he refuses to share.  
He sits with dry eyes, not quite there exactly, but staring into a distance that nobody else can see.  
If you speak to him, the man will ask, ‘Have you seen him? Did I miss him? Have you seen the Golden King?’ 

_The Man On The Shore Of Avalon, the after._  
The immortal who speaks in riddles.  
I saw him once, legs tucked up to his chest and head buried in them.   
I asked him what was wrong.  
He told me that he was waiting for someone.   
I asked him why he would wait for so long.  
He grinned at me, though it felt empty, and said, ‘If I wait, then I won’t forget.’ 

_A boy I knew said people bring him things, but I thought he was a dream._  
A figment.  
Something that my lonely mind created in tragic silence.  
But the Man On The Shore Of Avalon is very real, my darling.  
The boy asked his name, once.  
He never did tell me what it was. 

_If you see him at Avalon, my child, don’t be afraid._  
Ask him about more than I did.  
Ask him about his king.  
Ask him about the knights he spoke of briefly with eyes bright and wet.  
Don’t let him become a figment.  
He is real, and if he becomes a figment, my darling, then he’ll be as alone as he thinks he is. 

_Morgan, promise me that._  
I looked into his eyes and saw shadows of death and pain that no one person can carry alone.  
You may never see him. But if you do, please remember.  
The Man On The Shore Of Avalon is not evil. 

_For who that would wait lifetimes for their love could truly be malevolent?  
_

Morgan stares at him in awe. She may be a child still - 8 summers - but this man who looks younger than her father is near as old as time?

“Hello there,” he says, somewhere between smiling and crying. He looks sad, and Morgan doesn’t want him to be sad.

“Are you…” she begins, “are you the Man On The Shore Of Avalon?” 

He’s startled, but replies all the same, “I suppose that I am.”

“You’re not alone.” she decides, “I’ll stay with you.”

He looks at her, really looks at her. Something builds behind his eyes, it might be tears, but she doesn’t think so.

“Alright. And what might your name be, my Lady?” he asks, holding out a hand to help her up.

She takes it, “I’m Morgan, and you, my Lord?” he laughs, it’s full, brimming with something that isn’t quite relief but might rhyme with it.

“I’m hardly a Lord, Morgan. My name’s Merlin.”

* * *

The two of them sit on the shore together. It’s nice, the air is clear, not so dry as to make Morgan’s nose itch, but not humid enough to be uncomfortable. It feels like the height of autumn; cool and temperate.

The grass is rich and lush in its colour, greens of every shade weave in and around each other so expertly that she can scarcely tell where one ends and another begins.

They sit in silence, not asking any questions - Morgan wants to know, but she doesn’t have the words - just leaning against each other.

It’s peaceful. Restful in a way that little is these days, her half-sister always trying to control her, father being cold. It feels… nice… to have someone to just sit with.

Someone who wants nothing from her.

It’s not all good, or peaceful. People come to the shore, sometimes, and they beg Merlin to tell them about him. Some really believe that he’s _that_ Merlin, others are trying to get him to leave. To sell the land - that she knows now he owns - so they can build on it.

He never does.

She doesn’t ask him about his life during the day. But at night, when the stars are shining, and Avalon seems to glow from somewhere inside of it, and his eyes cloud over with something wistful, she does.

“Tell me about the King?” she asks the third week. It’s the first question she’s ever asked him about Albion.

Merlin looks to her, jarred out of whatever thoughts he was living in, and says, calm as the low tide, “What would you like to know?”

“What was he like?” she’s excited now, she thinks that his name must have been Arthur if Merlin really is _that_ Merlin.

He smiles, but it’s all kinds of cracked and broken and tells her, “To be completely honest? He could be a bit of a prat.”

Merlin laughs then, and a tear falls from his eye. Morgan lets him talk the rest of the night away. And every night after that.

Her friend tells her about a time of arguable peace, and a man who was prophesied to unite all the lands and bring them into a golden age. A man who was a Prince, then Crown Prince, then King.

A man who was his friend, his best friend. Who was betrayed over and over again.

She learns about The Purge. 

She learns that Merlin blames himself for every bit of pain that the Once And Future King ever went through.

Then, she learns about _Morgana_.

One of Merlin’s biggest regrets.

He tells her about a brilliant, proud, strong young woman, who was loved by the people and the nobles.

A woman who was the King’s ward. Uther Pendragon, not Arthur. 

About how Morgana was actually Uther’s daughter, how she was the product of an affair between Uther and the Lady Vivienne. How she was raised by Vivienne’s husband, Goloris, until he died and Uther took her in.

How she was a Seer, how she had magic like her mother before her, and her half-sister. 

How that magic first showed itself in nightmarish visions, that the Court Physician understood the meaning of, but never told her.

Merlin tells her that Morgana had come to him - scared and alone - about her visions. But he had turned her away. 

He tells her about Morgause, and the Knights of Medhir, and about the sleeping curse. About the poison. About every single thing that he ever did that he thinks made him a horrible awful person.

Then he tells her that he thinks that she _is_ Morgana.

That she’s the reincarnation of this woman that he killed so long ago. This woman that tried to kill him, usurp a throne, commit fratricide and patricide.

The same woman that stood up against a mad king. Stood for the ones who couldn’t hope to stand for themselves.

The girl who berated Arthur into standing up to his father.

The sorceress who Merlin loved as a sister, before he lost her to both of their deceit. 

Morgan can _feel_ it, then. It’s like pressure in her mind, she’s younger than Morgana had been when she met Merlin, but the memories start to bleed through.

Of course, there’s more. Morgan doesn’t hold any of it against Merlin. She doesn’t think Morgana did either, at the last.

But Merlin has been alone for a long time, and it shows.

When he talks, every word seems to hold a thousand meanings, a million memories. 

The first time It happens, Merlin is telling her about the everyday concerns they were faced with in Camelot.

“... and Leon would go on and on abo-” until all of a sudden he isn’t.

Merlin freezes. 

He stops talking, and his every muscle is corded with tension.

He’s staring at nothing, the air starts to thin around them.

He holds out his hand and something _tugs_ , a sword flies out of the lake.

She recognizes it.

_Excalibur_

He tosses it carelessly through the air with magic.

It impales him.

She watches him bleed out after pulling the sword from his gut.

When his heart stops, she watches the flesh knit itself back together.

A day or so later, he opens his eyes. Inhales. 

He sobs silently.

Merlin doesn’t talk again for a long while after he puts the sword back into the lake.

Morgan cries for a time, and in that time she thinks, she really becomes Morgana.

The memories hit her like a bomb. 

All of a sudden, it’s not just flashes. She _is_ Morgana. She feels what Morgana felt, sees what she saw, knows what she knew.

But she isn’t the same.

She’s some combination. 

Yes, she is the woman who sent her brother into the perilous lands with a fatal charm, but she is also the child who was left behind by her family and found a new one in one pessimistic, self-loathing, immortal warlock.

It’s laughable. 

In a way that makes her want to hide away and never show her face again.

Because now, in a way that she didn’t really get before, Morgan(a) _understands_.

She sees all she did so long ago, all that Merlin did. But she has perspective now. Wisdom that comes from hearing the entire other side of the story. From seeing everything that she set in motion.

Shame burns in her, the hatred that she had once aimed at the world at large, at Uther - who deserved it - and Arthur - who did not.

She can so clearly remember it all, as if it were only yesterday. 

She remembers how betrayed she had felt, staring up into Merlin’s face after he poisoned her. The betrayal of learning her parentage. She remembers these things as clear as crystal.

But she scoffs at her reactions, wishes that she could turn back time and stop herself.

She reaches out a hand to Merlin - the man who once killed her, the man she sees now as family - and looks into his eyes.

He sees it, she knows. Recognizes the age in her eyes. She can see the realization dawning on him, the regret and fear. The panic, the pain that is deeper than she thought possible.

“I’m sorry,” she begins, voice shaking with unshed tears, “I’m sorry, and I forgive you.”

Blue eyes widen, and they’re bright - bright with tears, of years agonizing over a future that has long since passed - and then Merlin is crying into her shoulder, and she’s crying too.

It’s relief and loss and pain and sadness all together and at the same time.

A mirror, that’s what it is, what she feels that Merlin is to her, in many ways.

They were both little more than children, Arthur, too. Her and her brother - _brother_ , even a thousand years later, it still shocks her - children fighting over a crown too heavy for their heads alone. Merlin, no older, thrust onto the path of a destiny he neither wanted nor chose.

Somewhere along the line, they all lost sight of the reasons that they were fighting in the first place. Merlin went from protecting magic to protecting Arthur above all, and damn the consequences. Arthur forgot about his dreams of a kingdom of true equality, blinded by betrayal after betrayal.

And she… Morgana lost herself in hatred and fear. She learned that it was more productive to hate. She trusted the wrong sibling. She was lied to, and deceived in turn. Turned her back on a family that could have been hers - Gwen, Arthur, Merlin, and all of the rest - and chose darkness.

They used to be so young, so unbelievably young. She wishes that she could go back and fix it all. How early did it start? How early did she feel the weight of fear and desperation? When was it that she first mused how easy it would be to end the reign of Uther Pendragon.

(Harder than it had sounded in her head, actually.)

She wraps an arm around Merlin, the warlock is silent now, no more tears.

The waters of Avalon seem to breathe out in relief - at what, she’s not sure.

They sit there for an eternity. Days and nights pass, and Morgana shares her side with Merlin. They let go of it all and wait.

Morgana isn’t sure of the how or the why, but she stops aging at around 25.

There’s something very calming about just _existing_ here, and they talk, and they build. Merlin writes a book and sends it off to a man named Geoffrey - not the court genealogist, someone else - and huff - slightly affronted, slightly bemused - at the version that he publishes.

Sometimes, Morgana catches Merlin looking at her with… not exactly sadness, or anger, even. Like he’s seeing worlds that never were, maybe. 

_It_ still happens sometimes. Always when they chat about Camelot, and every time, the same thing. Silence, Excalibur, blood.

She never asks him about it, mostly since she thinks that she knows the _why_ of it, and poking at old wounds would do nothing good.

Eventually, he tells her about the little he remembers after Arthur died…

She tells him that he’s a legend, he laughs. The sound isn’t as coarse as it used to be. His eyes are bright with amusement as he turns to her, a smile crinkling up his face.

“Which legend?” he asks indulgently.

“Too many to count, but I heard the story or the Man On The Shore Of Avalon an age ago, from my mother.”

The smile fades away, slowly, like the waves of the lake are covering over it gently.

He looks out over the waters and whispers one sentence, “He’ll be back.”

Morgana lays down, idly playing with the magics of the earth that seem to spring to the surface around here.

_Yes_ , she thinks, a smile playing at her lips, _he will_. And when he is, maybe they can all act the child again.


End file.
